


Some Enchanted Evening

by htebazytook



Category: House M.D.
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, PWP, Romance, Slash, Smut, Stripping, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-03
Updated: 2009-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>To temper the Huddy storm on the horizon that's coming (D:) tomorrow night, I give you slutty, drunken Wilson!  At some point I read the words "Wilson strips" in regard to last week's episode and I was terribly, terribly disappointed when it didn't quite happen.  (Weren't we all??)  This is my solution.  How the hell it got so damn long I really don't know lol</p>
    </blockquote>





	Some Enchanted Evening

**Author's Note:**

> To temper the Huddy storm on the horizon that's coming (D:) tomorrow night, I give you slutty, drunken Wilson! At some point I read the words "Wilson strips" in regard to last week's episode and I was terribly, terribly disappointed when it didn't quite happen. (Weren't we all??) This is my solution. How the hell it got so damn long I really don't know lol

**Title:** Some Enchanted Evening  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17 (drunken stripping and so much more :D)  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** House/Wilson  
 **Time Frame:** During 5.22, 'House Divided'  
 **Author's Notes:** To temper the Huddy storm on the horizon that's coming (D:) tomorrow night, I give you slutty, drunken Wilson! At some point I read the words "Wilson strips" in regard to last week's episode and I was terribly, terribly disappointed when it didn't quite happen. (Weren't we all??) This is my solution. How the hell it got so damn long I really don't know lol

 

 

"I don't usually do this kind of thing, I swear." Wilson is adamant.

House is in the next circle of people over so he has to glance back to see what the hell Wilson is talking about.

What he actually sees is Wilson is laughing at himself as his fingers hurry drunkenly over the buttons on his shirt. His tie's already undone and draped over his neck and his face is flushed.

House shrugs, intent on returning to his conversation but is interrupted by a roar of laughter and cat calls and looks back in time to see Wilson licking his lips and his shirt crumpled on the floor and someone thrusting another shot at him. Wilson downs it in slow motion, head tipping back luxuriously and alcohol spilling over his face a little, down his neck over straining muscle and ligament, over his overheated face and it must feel soothingly cold. Wilson makes this huge ordeal out of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, never actually lets his arm fall because now Thirteen's putting another shot in his open palm, grinning over her shoulder at Foreman. Wilson does the shot quick and fluid and practiced this time, hands it back to Thirteen with out of place courteousness.

Wilson grins obliviously around him, says something that gets lost under the thump of the music and the flashing lights, but it gets him a laugh.

House turns back around to pretend he can actually hear what the random guy from Wilson's phonebook is talking about. Inviting people had been tricky since Wilson didn't separate the numbers one would normally keep in one's little black book from the rest of them.

But civilized conversation is getting old fast and most of the people around him are facing the clearing where Wilson's doing God knows what now. And House is forced to follow suit and turn around.

The shotglass catches brash pink light, drawing House's attention to where it rests on Wilson's bottom lip, rocks into his mouth accompanied by an audible _mmm_ out of Wilson's throat. Wilson hands it to the nearest stripper, shakes his head and starts struggling out of his undershirt.

Staging this thing in Wilson's apartment is _really_ paying off.

House finds himself focusing on the rise and fall of the sound level, the rise and fall of Wilson's chest against the flimsy fabric as it reveals more and more skin, stretching tight and hanging loose while Wilson's arms twist around. His hair bounces back into place as it comes off and he shakes his head again like a dog, wide eyes and panting only adding to the illusion. House knows on some level that he's staring pretty obviously across the colorful, flashy debauchery of Wilson's living room, that he might even be gaping, but then again so is half the party.

He kind of wished Amber was there to partake of the Wilson-themed revelry.

"Waitwaitwait . . . why do I have to take off my pants?" Wilson is intensely confused about this.

"They _are_ clothes," Thirteen explains.

"Ohhhh, right. Okay." And then Wilson unbuckles his belt, halfway through the process when something visibly occurs to him. "Hey, Thirteen, Thirteen." Wilson claps a hand on her shoulder and she tries not to laugh.

"Yes, Wilson."

"I've gotta question for you. Sorry if this is inapprecia—inaprobabl—not a good thing to ask, but, I've always wondered about . . . this. Do, I mean, _do_ you like men or women better? Wait, that's not what I mean. I mean, I mean relationship—s with them. Which one's better?"

"No, it's fine, um." Thirteen can't stop grinning at Wilson's incoherence. "Well, women are better at talking, but they're also bitchier. Men are better at being possessive—dunno if that's always a good thing. Men don't need you to share every little thing with them, which . . . isn't necessarily always a good thing either, really . . ."

"What about sex?" Wilson sounds like a mild-mannered reporter on the local news.

Thirteen laughs. " _Well_ , um, it's . . . different. But women do know what women want."

" _God_ I hate relationships," Wilson moans.

Foreman raises his eyebrows.

"I mean," Wilson continues. "It just, it's just so much _work_ and you've gotta keep up this, you've gotta act the right way _all the time_. God, it's so much _easier_ with men . . ."

Foreman jumps in: "What men?"

"Oh, you know, just House. Oh wait, wait that came out—wrong, uh. No. We . . . no. _Ha!_ You know what I'm saying."

Foreman raises his eyebrows. "No, I don't think we do."

Thirteen laughs.

"House knows. House . . . _House_?" he raises his voice a little. "Oh, you're right here why, why didn't you speak up? Anyway, you know what I'm saying, right?" Wilson leans into him, hands on House's shoulders, smooth naked skin radiating heat teasingly.

House clears his throat to make absolutely certain his voice doesn't break. "I know you're drunk off your ass and talking nonsense and that it _is_ , quite frankly, a challenge to know what, exactly, you are saying."

Wilson blinks at the length of House's answer, blinks up close where House can taste his alcohol-laced breath and count individual pores.

"Oh, come on, House, you know what I'm trying to say, don't you?" And suddenly Wilson sounds sober and confidential and low-pitched and House wonders if it's a hallucination. Wilson's eyes lock with his for exactly seven seconds and House feels his mouth go dry, the hum of music and people fading into the sound of House's heart beating and he's hypnotized . . .

And then Wilson glances off to the side so House seizes the opportunity to make a break for the nearest possible exit, which unfortunately turns out to be the bathroom.

 

*

 

House tips the girls, shoos the last of the party guests, and collapses into the only remaining armchair in relief. Overall he'd rate the party a success, anaphylactic shock notwithstanding.

He dozes, but it's not long before he hears the door creak and opens his eyes to half-dressed, pants-less Wilson. House wonders what kind of rationale Wilson was using that led him to put his shirt back on but take his pants _off_ to go wandering the streets of Princeton.

Wilson looks around slowly, frown developing. House explains in order to save Wilson's brain the trouble of functioning: "Chase had an allergic reaction and they had to take him to the hospital."

"Ah." Wilson clearly hasn't processed it but he pretends he has and shrugs and stands there looking at the floor silently for awhile.

" _Well_ ," House begins, "I'd better get go—"

"Why? Where are, _where_ are you going? The hospital?"

See, now would be a _good_ time for Amber to pop up. He could use some insight into the steady stare and parted lips and half-nakedness in front of him.

"What happened to your pants?" It had to be said.

Wilson looks down as though he'd forgotten they were missing. "I . . . couldn't find them when I was getting dressed again. Do you, do you see them any . . . where?" He shuffles around where he stands, scanning the floor, peering up at the ceiling fan for good measure.

"It's hot in here!" Wilson says like it's some great epiphany, unbuttons his shirt haphazardly. House watches him struggle with the final two buttons for a small eternity before he just gives it up with a sigh. He looks blankly at House for a minute, surveys the room again. "Wait a minute, _wait_ a minute where'd all the . . . the, bikini bows. _Breasts_. Where . . . ?"

"It's like 2 in the morning—they had to make their curfew."

" _House_ ," Wilson whines. House raises his eyebrows—the man is acting like a horny 6-year-old. "You didn't even . . . you weren't even enjoying the party. You wanted to be in charge of it. Fun! I don't care that you're House, House, you can't just—it would've been _fun_! I thought you . . . I _thought_ you _liked_ getting me in embarrassing situations. How're you panning—uh, planning to blackmail me or whatever . . ."

"Eh, the hidden cameras I had installed to catalogue your humiliation will see to that."

Wilson's eyes widen, off in his own world. "Oh my God, you didn't even get a lap dance! _House_ , what is wrong with you? Those girls had . . . bows! _Breasts_! Delicious . . . skin. Fruity . . ."

House nods sadly. "Alas."

Wilson's look of disbelief modulates slowly into something else and House knows _that_ look—he's scheming.

"Well since the girls aren't here, _may_ be . . . I should give you one."

"And what makes you think I even _want_ a lap dance from the likes of you?"

Wilson shrugs, smirks, stands in front of House in nothing but boxers and a dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, tilts his head and stares steadily at him and rubs the back of his neck, a misleadingly timid gesture. He inches closer, swaying in an attempt at sexiness that probably owes more to alcohol consumption than technique. He tugs roughly on the last buttons of his shirt until they break free, never looking away from House for a second. House had sunk down into the chair before but now the position is changing from relaxation to vulnerability. House is surprised by the ease with which Wilson maneuvers onto the chair and straddles him, surprised by the speed of the transition from insincere, purely intellectual banter to Wilson on top of him and breathing hard.

"You sure you know what your doing?" House says because he can't think well enough to know what else to say.

"Oh come on I watched them doing this all night. How hard can it be?" Wilson leans closer and seizes House's hands where they rest determinedly at his sides, puts them on his own chest and moves them up to his shoulders. "Help me out, here." Wilson's voice is loud in a savory, surround sound kind of way, and his skin is burning and his plain professional shirt is warm from being against him. House never does get around to pushing it off Wilson's shoulders, too distracted by the feeling of his skin.

"Oh ye of little faith," Wilson breathes.

He's weirdly taller than House like this and seeing him from a different angle makes it seem like he's not Wilson at all. He attempts to gyrate his hips around in a provocative manner but he can't quite get the groove of it and sighs in annoyance and rolls his eyes at himself and suddenly this whole thing seems hilarious and harmless. Some of the tension in the room drains and House is both relieved and worried because he hasn't got it to fall back on to justify his obsession with the way Wilson keeps licking his lips.

Wilson loops his arms around House's neck and leans closer and up.

"Okay, now, pretend there's cleavage in your face."

House laughs, feeling at ease. Except Wilson shivers at the air ghosting across his skin and House's hand goes to his hip to steady him which makes Wilson shiver again.

"This is turning you on," Wilson remarks.

"Thought that was the whole point of a lap dance." He's impressed with how coherent he sounds.

"The point is to turn you on and take your money and give you false hope of ever _actually_ getting into my pants."

"You're not wearing pants," House points out.

"You're hoping." Wilson's eyes sink to half-mast as he says it, breathing audible and body burning wherever it's touching House's.

"You're _hot_." He really is, and House is sick of ignoring it and leans up to kiss him, tangles the ends of Wilson's undone tie in his fingers to keep him from retreating.

Wilson's mouth is a stronger cocktail of alcoholic refreshment than House was expecting. Whatever—his tongue is drawing attention away from it pretty effectively. And by the way, isn't "it" supposed to have trouble even _working_ after this much alcohol? Reality begs to differ and House isn't complaining, secure in Wilson's enthusiasm by now and letting both hands fall to his hips, grind them together vaguely and making Wilson moan a little. The kiss speeds up, sucking and slippery while Wilson undoes House's tie and flings it somewhere unknown, unbuttons House's shirt way too quickly and runs his palms up House's chest and moans and kisses his neck. House has to close his eyes and focus on delicate, wet warmth and Wilson's hair tickling his jaw.

After a minute Wilson just stops, everything suddenly still. He stares at him and it occurs to House that Wilson's level of inebriation might be the only reason this is happening, but try as he might he just can't bring himself to care.

"It's just so hot in here," Wilson says again, half to himself, and struggles to strip out of his undershirt for the second time in one night. Up close, the awkwardness is tempered nicely with his scent and flushed skin and hardening cock. House has to grip his hips more firmly to keep him from overbalancing but it doesn't really work and Wilson just ends up draped over him and breathing and hot, so that's okay.

Wilson groans, kissing wherever he can reach and House maps his back with his hands, grinds up into him and groans back.

"Ohgod, _finally_ , this is . . ." Wilson doesn't finish the thought, instead sliding down House's body, House's unbuttoned shirt getting caught between them, ends up with his hands fumbling with House's fly until layers are gone and he has his cock in his hands, grip, exhale, lick, mouth oh my _God_ . . .

You'd think that clumsy drunken enthusiasm would detract from impromptu blowjobs but, as it turns out, it only enhances them. Wilson's clearly got no experience but he's also clearly got some ideas of what feels fucking amazing, sucking hard on what he can fit in his mouth and fingers flicking teasingly up the insides of his thighs before wrapping around the base of his cock and pumping. Wilson's mouth withdraws slowly, head tipping back and lips lingering like they had with all those lucky shot glasses.

He's waiting for Amber to pop up and provide commentary at any given moment, maybe remind him that Wilson isn't in his right mind. Not that it matters to House—Wilson's other mind is usually wrong anyway.

Wilson's hand starts a decently up-tempo rhythm and the caress of his breathing over House's cock is almost as good as his mouth had been. Wilson stares up at him while he takes House in his mouth again and House makes a choked sound, can't help skimming fingers through Wilson's hair, emphatically _not_ stroking . . .

Wilson moans around his cock, the vibrations from it vague and tantalizing and making House's eyes roll back in his head. He tugs on Wilson's hair, just a little, says his name. Wilson sucks him harder in response, hands securing House's hips and seemingly unable to stop making soft noises while his tongue does acrobatics. House is getting close, transfixed by the fluctuating pressure and Wilson's voice and glimpsing Wilson's eyes obsessing over him and closing again tightly and flying open to lay House bare. So much _heat_ , so many _years_ —

" _Wilson_." House comes and Wilson pulls away just in time, jerks him perfectly while the waves course through him and House's hand tangles possessively in his hair. Wilson doesn’t seem to mind, but again that might be the drink talking. Or giving him brain-melting orgasms or whatever.

Not that House cares.

Wilson flashes a smile that makes House's heart race and scrambles on top of him again, pulls undergarments out of the way and drags House's hands to his neglected cock and whimpers to convey his message until House is jerking him fast and hard and Wilson goes to kiss him, all tongue and surprisingly bereft of alcohol all of a sudden. House's heart races and Wilson comes all too soon, crying out up close into House's mouth, sweaty forehead pushing into his.

They stay there panting for awhile, so long that House becomes aware of a clock ticking somewhere and the discomfort of the position. But Wilson's so . . .

"You're gonna move my furniture back tomorrow," Wilson murmurs, "cripple or not."

"Do you really think I'm the kind of person who would've already auctioned it off on eBay?" Talking like this is bizarrely natural even in this context, even with come and sweat and things unspoken between them.

"Gotta get home," House reminds him after a minute.

"Yeah, I've gotta pass out, now, I think." Wilson clambers off of him, stands unsteadily in his empty, wrecked living room wearing little more than the dreamy look on his face. House nods and puts his clothes back in order, struggles out of the chair with shotglasses and friendship crowding his thoughts.

"Mm, wait." Wilson wades through silent, heated air to melt into him and meet House's mouth with his, grin into the end of the kiss. "Sweet dreams."

So House leaves, confident he might actually get to sleep.

 

*


End file.
